


Mr Nice Guy

by tunglo



Category: Toy Story (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Coffee Shops, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 05:04:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13047072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunglo/pseuds/tunglo
Summary: Sid makes a big impression on Andy.





	Mr Nice Guy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [damnedscribblingwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnedscribblingwoman/gifts).



In a movie, Andy thinks, he would have found a job at some quaint little book shop on campus. Or else in some multinational coffee outlet, his flustered reflection staring back at him from gleaming chrome as the object of his affection slowly fell for his bumbling charm and killer mochachino.

In the real world Andy peels out of a tutoring session to make his summer shift at the health hazard of a diner. Fries eggs, and flips burgers, and swipes the sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, because it’s not like he’s going to be impressing anybody anyway - not in his scuffed up sneakers and grease splattered apron.

It doesn’t stop him hoping though.

Doesn’t stop his heart hammering frantically in his chest every time the bell above the door sounds, nor the way he cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of whoever it is who has just stepped over the threshold.

"I’m not paying you to stand around doing nothing,” his boss complains every time he catches him at it, and though Andy is tempted to point out that the guy scarcely pays him in the first place, he never does.

He has never been that kind of kid.

Andy’s a nice guy. A good boy. He’s always cleaned his room and turned in his assignments. Tried not to fight with his sister and done his Mom’s bidding with the bare minimum of whining. It’s probably written all over him, too. Might as well be tattooed across his forehead; LOSER spelled out in capital letters for the benefit of everyone who encounters him.

That’s what he thinks when his breath catches in his throat, nerves destroying whatever reflexes he may have had. And it’s what he thinks as he’s on his backside in the midst of a disaster of his own creating, attempting desperately to get to his feet and mop up the mess before he loses this stint of employment altogether.

“Hey, you need some help back there?” A voice calls, too familiar for all that it’s never truly been directed at him, so that one moment he’s sprawled out on the floor, ankle throbbing with the pain of the fall and cheeks burning with the humiliation of slipping... and the next Sid Phillips is holding out his hand and hauling him up, like something from the pages of Molly’s favourite childhood fairy tales.

He wants to say something. Needs to do something, anything, instead of just gawping at the other man like an idiot.

“Seriously, dude, you okay?” Sid asks, probably suspecting brain damage, and all Andy manages is nodding stupidly and then crumpling back to the floor with the first step he takes, his ankle protesting the movement violently.

The worst thing is that Andy doesn’t care, not as much as he knows he should, because Sid’s hands are back on him, helping him stand again. His arm wraps around him, steadying, and somehow they end up outside in Sid’s beat up old truck, Sid telling him that if he apologizes just one more time he’ll kick his sorry ass out and let him hitch home.

“Unless you do want me to drop you at the ER. That was quite a fall you had there, Andy.”

“You know my name,” is what Andy manages, stupidly, because Sid might be the kid who once lived next door and gave him nightmares - but he’s also the broad shouldered guy who collects their garbage, and eats at god awful greasy diners on break with his co-workers, and keeps him awake at nights with tremors that have absolutely nothing to do with fear.

“You’re wearing a name tag,” Sid points out, easily, and something of the crushing disappointment he feels must be showing on his face because Sid laughs and says, “Of course I know your name. I remember you when you were in diapers.”

Andy flushes at that, for all that Sid is only a few years older and couldn’t have been long out of them himself at the time, and Sid grins as he drums his fingers against the steering wheel to some unheard metal track.

That might have been the full extent of the thing. Him embarrassing himself enough to cringe every time he revisited the memory, and Sid enjoying his discomfort before disappearing and sticking to the winding path that kept their future selves apart from each other. But his Mom is still at work when Sid guides him to his doorstep, and Molly is out spending money at the mall, giggling with her girlfriends over some new victim or other.

His door key is back at the diner, in the pocket of the jacket he had forgotten like a grade A idiot, and rather than have him hobble back to the car Sid just sits on the steps of the porch and pats the empty space beside him.

They talk, Andy stilted and awkward at first, then rapid and eager as he explains his major, and what he plans to do with it after graduation.

“And you?” He asks finally, suddenly very aware that he hasn’t paused for breath in at least twenty minutes, and the good humor slides away along with the smile on Sid’s lips. It’s a sore point, perhaps. A mistake that anyone else would have avoided, and before he has chance to backtrack Sid is up on his feet and telling him that he’ll see him around, maybe, even as his Mom is pulling up to the curb and wanting to know why he’s home so early.

Andy thinks about the encounter all weekend. Gets his ankle looked over by the family doctor, and returns to work a few days later, determined to pay for his own textbooks no matter how happy his Mom might be to buy them for him. It’s about the independence. Adulthood. Proving he has the ability to stand on his own two feet, albeit a little unsteadily.

“It’s just a sprain,” he’s busy telling one of the regulars in reference to the latter, apron even worse than usual as he does his best to keep his weight off the bad foot. “It does it good to keep moving.”

“You don’t want a lift home today then?” says a voice behind him, and Andy doesn’t forget his keys this time. Manages not to hog the entire conversation, either, and by the time they’re turning into his street he has somehow convinced Sid that he needs tutoring of his own on the subjects of decent night spots and music worth listening to.

They make a habit of it, him stinking of cooking fat and grease, and Sid rough around the edges and smelling faintly of garbage collection. It doesn’t bother him, and it doesn’t seem to bother Sid, and the trip takes them longer each time, what with the talking, and the music, and the time they go and hang around the old Pizza Planet for a couple of hours like a pair of schoolkids.

It’s the best date he’s ever been on, for all that it’s no such thing, and when he gets in Molly teases him ceaselessly because he can’t help but be so very obvious. Can’t help but read too much into every word and every accidental touch, and can’t help the way his throat chokes up with emotion when he finishes his last shift of the summer and Sid tells him around a cigarette,

“So, that’s it then, you’re through with slumming it.”

“I’m not a snob,” Andy protests, because they’ve had this argument already, but Sid only flicks away his smoke and tells him to have a good time at college. Walks away like they haven’t spent weeks building something, becoming something, and Andy doesn’t know whether to rage or cry, so settles for watching old episodes of _Buzz Lightyear of Star Command_ in his bedroom with his knees pulled to his chest.

Sometimes he wishes he were a kid again.

Things were simple then - black and white, and right and wrong, and when they weren’t his Mom would tuck him into bed with Sheriff Woody and promise that come morning everything would be all right again.

All the morning does bring is the sound of the garbagemen clanging trash cans up and down the sidewalk, and though Andy watches from his window, Sid never once so much as glances in his direction.

He doesn’t pick up his phone when Andy tries calling, and he doesn’t react to Andy’s pitifully transparent attempts to attract Sid’s attention via social media. Because he goes back to college and concentrates on his studies. Plasters pictures of the sole frat party he attends all semester over his Facebook page, and spends too many hours staring up at his dorm room ceiling, wondering if Sid is thinking of him.

Why Sid let him get his hopes up, and how much less it would be hurting if Sid had just ignored him, and left him to crush pathetically from a distance.

He’s still thinking of Sid as he packs up for Christmas, and when his Mom forces him to be polite and sociable and nibble at a sugar cookie at some community carol service organized by her friend at the daycare center. He spies the little kid there, the one he gave his old toys to, and seeing her clutching at a stuffed hedgehog and whispering into Woody’s ear reminds him of his own make believe games, interrupted only by bathtime and dinner, and watching Sid blow things up from his bedroom window.

It all gets too much, in the end. Too much good cheer for his pall of misery, and he steps outside for some fresh air, breath misting as he gazes up at the constellations. He’s going to have to go back inside, iis going to freeze to the spot if he doesn’t shift in the near future, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and he feels a whole lot warmer.

“Your Mom said you’d be here,” Sid says, and he’s looking up at the sky rather than at Andy, “she even gave me a flyer yesterday morning.”

“So you thought you’d slum it for the evening?”

It comes out harsh and judging, rather than the joking levity he had been aiming for, and Andy waits for Sid to take offence and storm off. To laugh in his face, maybe, and mock him for getting so worked up over a throwaway comment.

The silence stretches, nothing but the sound of laughter filtering out from inside the building, and Andy’s throat is clogged up tight with unwanted emotion when Sid says softly,

“I pick up trash for a living, Davis. Doesn’t mean I’m any good at picking myself up when someone’s had enough of me.”

Andy’s stomach flutters because he gets it. Understands what Sid’s trying to tell him, and feels almost giddy with the relief of it. Breathless with the excitement.

“I’m no good at parting with anything. You’ll learn that about me.”

“Yeah?”

They make eye contact then, the few snowflakes beginning to fall poor justification for the color in Sid’s cheeks, and Andy beams as he takes the initiative.

“I’ll make sure of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, feel free to chat / hit me with prompts over on Tumblr [@serenwib](http://serenwib.tumblr.com/). :)


End file.
